My Heart, My Home
by Spiro911
Summary: 5,000 kilometers is a long way. Especially if you are waiting to see someone you love. Fluff, post-teenlock


My Heart My Home

Sherlock was stalking around the body of a young male while shooting off deductions as a frazzled looking Lestrade tried his best to write them all down when Mycroft Holmes had stepped onto the crime scene.

"Sorry this is a crime scene, I have to ask you to please step behind the yellow tape," Sally Donavan told Mycroft sharply.

Mycroft didn't even spare her a glance as he strolled up to his brother tapping his umbrella all the while.

"Go away Mycroft, I'm working," Sherlock mumured, his eyes not leaving the body laying before him.

"Sherlock, we need to talk. Now," his usually calm, posh voice was clipped with such urgency that it caused Sherlock to turn and stare at his brother. His eyes widened slightly when he took in Mycroft's expression.

"Mycroft, what's happened? Is it... Is it-" Sherlock inhaled shakily, he seemed unable to continue so he simply waited for Mycroft to speak.

"Maybe it would be best if we talked somewhere more private," Mycroft said, his eyes taking in all the police officers and such who had all stopped what they were doing to eavesdrop on the two brothers.

"No Mycroft. Tell me what's happened," Sherlock stepped closer to his bother with a look of pleading in his eyes. He was becoming frantic. His hands were clammy and shaking badly.

"John's been shot." Sherlock's breath caught in his throat; ohgodohgodohgodnonono. Seeing his brother's rising panic, Mycroft hurrily added, "It's not fatal, it went through his shoulder. He'll be fine Sherlock," The younger of the two was paling rapidly and a look of fear was running rampant across his features. Mycroft stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder, "He will be fine," he repeated softly.

"I know that! Of course he'll be fine, the doctors would have to be completely incompetent for him not to be," Sherlock said quickly, trying his best to stay logical.

"I can take you to him. I can have a plane ready and waiting that can have you in Afghanistan by the morning in the time it takes us to get to your flat on Baker street."

"Very well," Sherlock said, nodding, as Mycroft pulled out his cellphone and began making calls.

"I'm very sorry Lestrade," He said as he turned to give the man a fleeting look. His frantic state was making it hard for him to stand still and he kept shifting from foot to foot, "but it seems you'll be solving this case on your own." With that Sherlock bounded after his brother who was already slipping into a sleek black car.

Sherlock left the police force with confused looks.

"Where the hell is the Freak going?" Donavan said as they watched the car depart the crime scene.

"Afghanistan, apparently," Lestrade said.

"Who's John? Is he the Freak's boyfriend or something?"

"I have no idea, Sergeant Donavan, but we best be getting on with this case."

Four hours later, Sherlock was seated on a private jet that his brother's string pulling had gotten him and was already half way to his destination.

He had spent nearly all of the four hours pacing up and down the short isle of the small jet, unable to sit still while the images of a wounded, bed-ridden John laying all alone kept bursting into his mind. He was beginning to think this might be the worst torture he'd ever been though. Sherlock groaned and threw himself into a seat. As soon as he was seated his leg began bouncing. He scowled at it.

Sherlock sighed and leaned his head against the plane window. He found himself thinking back to the first time he had meant John Watson. It had been about two months into the school year. Sherlock had been to only private boarding schools before; however, he had been kicked out of every single one for one thing or another (usually some sort of horrible experiment on some unsuspecting brainless roommate or classmate.) His parents, faced with a rebellious genius teenager and no expensive private schools willing to take him, we're forced to enroll Sherlock in a regular old public school.

His Grammar School science teacher at the time was quickly running out of lab partners willing to work with Sherlock because he had a tendency to cause them to either burst into tears or try to punch him (and on a few occasions both.) So the teacher placed Sherlock with the calmest of her students and hoped very much that John Watson would be able to handle the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock smiled to himself, it had worked better than their science teacher could ever have anticipated. The two youths became inseparable that day forth (and Sherlock had stopped his more horrible experiments on fellow students.) It had taken a little while longer for the two to realize their more-than-friendship feelings for one another. Sherlock was sure the feelings had been there the whole time but it had not been till the middle of their last year of Grammar School that they had finally admitted their feelings for each other.

Sherlock's smile widened as he recalled the day he and John had started dating. It had been so simple. John and him had been laying across the floor of John's bedroom, just talking, as they tended to do on non-busy weekends, when John had suddenly rolled over onto his side and leaned his head over Sherlock's and pressed a small, gentle kiss to the other's lips. Sherlock had given a wide smiled in return and John had settled his head on Sherlock's shoulder and draped an arm across his chest. They then continued on with their pervious conversation.

It had been absolutely horrible when John had gotten out of medical school and decided to join the military. Sherlock had tried all of his best logical arguments against the idea. None worked. He was forced to move onto his more irrational arguments, saying he would perform destructive experiments on John's favorite jumpers while the other man was gone, threatening to withhold sex when John got back, telling John he was going to dissect dead bodies on John's side of the bed, and at one point he had stolen John's handgun, pointing it at his computer, stating he would only let it live if John said he wouldn't go. Ah, but once John Watson decided to do something there was no stopping him; stubborn bastard.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. He missed that stubborn bastard quite a lot and all the letters from the battlefield and occasional Skyping had done nothing to ease the ache in Sherlock's chest or the emptiness he felt every hour of everyday without his John.

Sherlock was staring out the window, lost in past memories, when the flight attendant approached him.

"Mr. Holmes?" She said softly.

"Hm?" He didn't even bother looking at her.

"We will at the British army hospital momentarily, sir."

"Thank you," She nodded and left.

Within fifteen minutes Sherlock was off the private jet and standing in front of a uniformed soldier. The man was tall and lean with a head of reddish curly hair.

"Welcome, Mr. Holmes," Sherlock nodded jerkily. His minimal patience was waning and he desperately needed to see John before he started screaming in frustration.

"Right this way, sir," the soldier led him into the large hospital and out of the horrible desert heat that was making Sherlock sweat despite it still being relatively early in the day.

"I hope your flight was pleasant."

God, he was making small talk, stupid, idiotic, pointless, small talk.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, "It was fine."

The soldier turned and looked at him for a moment before turning away, "I was with him when he got shot," Sherlock jerked his head to stare intently at the other man. He continued softly, "We, and a few others, were recovering injured soldiers off the battlefield." the red haired soldier took a shaky breath, "I remember hearing the shots and we all dropped and I looked to my left and saw John lying there next to me. At first..." he took another breath and Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to hear anymore. He was beginning to feel a bit sick but he couldn't bring himself to interrupt the soldier and a part of him needed to know this. "At first I didn't know what had happened. I thought he had just dropped like the rest of us. But when the rest of us started to crawl towards safety he wasn't moving. Another doctor on the other side of me checked him and she shouted 'He's been shot! He's losing too much blood!'. It took three of us to drag him to safety, we were still getting shot at. And do you know what he was whispering the whole time?" He turned to stare at Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head, murmuring a soft "no".

"He kept whispering, 'Please God let me live. Please, I just want to see him again. Please, God I just want to see Sherlock one last time."

Sherlock tried his best to swallow down the lump that was rising in his throat. He felt his vision beginning to blur from unshed tears. Thankfully the soldier wasn't looking at him when a single tear escaped and slid down his face. He wiped it away quickly and took a calming breath.

"This is it, room 221b," he motioned towards a closed door with a shiny silver plate reading '221b'.

"Thank you, uh... I didn't catch your name," Sherlock held out a hand to the reddish haired solider.

"Thomas William, Mr. Holmes," He shook Sherlock's hand.

"You may call me Sherlock. Thank you again. For everything."

"Of course, Sherlock," The man gave him a small smile before disappearing around a corner.

Sherlock turned back to the room where his John was laying. He opened the door as gently as he could, not wanting to wake John if he happened to be sleeping.

When he stepped inside he found John sitting up and reading a book. Sherlock noticed it was one of the medical journals he had bought him for Christmas.

"Hello-" John looked up from his book and his eyes widened in surprise, "Sherlock?! What are you doing here?" John was grinning now.

Sherlock couldn't help returning that infectious smile, "I came here to see you, obviously," he walked across the small room to sit on the chair next to John's bed.

"How did you manage to do that? Not that I'm not happy to see you, which I am. Really, really, happy as a matter of fact," he was still grinning.

Sherlock took John's hand and ran his lips across his tanned knuckles, "Mycroft," he said simply. He moved John's hand so that the other man's palm was resting against his cheek. He hummed happily at the warmth of John's touch after such a long absence without it.

"Ah, Mycroft, I should have known," John murmured softly. He rubbed the thumb of the hand resting against Sherlock's cheek along the the man's ridiculous cheekbones.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes at the contact, "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too."

"I was so worried," Sherlock said softly.

"I'm sorry," John murmured.

"Don't be," He whispered as he leaned across the bed and pressed his lips to John's.

It was a lovely kiss. Slow and sweet and gentle. It conveyed the emptiness, the pain, and the loneliness of their time spent apart as well as joys of being reunited and the overwhelming feeling of love the two males felt for each other in ways that words could never hope to achieve.

Sherlock pulled away just the smallest bit so that their foreheads were resting against each other.

"I love you, John," Sherlock whispered, staring into John's brown eyes.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

They smiled at each other for a long moment before John promptly gave the biggest ad widest yawn of his life.

"Sleep! You're healing and you need your sleep," Sherlock was already up and pushing the button that lowered John's bed down and closing the blinds.

"Yes, mother," John said, fibbing irritation while rolling his eyes; but the overall effect was ruined when he yawned again.

Sherlock smirked down at him, "Oh, I'm definitely not your mother."

John flushed at the slightly suggestive tone. He scooted a little over in his bed. He patted the empty space, "Sleep with me?" He asked.

Sherlock smiled, "Of course."

He kicked off his shoes and slipped into the small bed next to John. His head came to rest a little above John's and he nuzzled his nose into the short blond hair. Sherlock curled a long pale arm protectively across the other man's stomach.

Sherlock could feel John's breath even out as he slipped into the realm of dreams. The consulting detective smiled to himself and felt his own mind being pulled into that blissful darkness.

It felt wonderful to be home, because as the saying goes: home was where the heart was. And John was Sherlock's heart and always would be.

My very first Johnlock story! It was a ton of fun to write. This is a Valentine's Day present for Saperia-muffin! I hope you all enjoyed it.

Please leave a comment

~Love Spiro


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